The Dead Man
by Avice.cr
Summary: Sherlock learns about love and loss when it's too late. He has to find his way back to John. Continuing the story from the BBC cemetery scene onwards and even stopping over at Conan Doyle'sThe Empty House. M for eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

The weather was cloudy. The wind shaking the trees in occasional gusts. Mycroft hadn't even bothered to turn up for the ceremony. But that would be expected. When Mrs. Hudson walked away, John stayed behind.

Stayed behind to surprise Sherlock with what he did. Sherlock had not realised. He had had no idea.

John had buried many friends fallen in battle. Sherlock hadn't thought he would be any special. People died, especially in a war. Moriarty was his war. Casualties were inevitable.

John knew war. He knew its demands, their certainty.

But there he was, asking for a miracle, for Sherlock to return. Holding back the tears; first lessons a soldier had to learn. And John almost crying. For him. He had had no idea.

He had started to fall for John during their first taxi ride together, when John had not told him to piss off. He had had a definite crush on him by the time they shared their first laugh after chasing after London's worst cabbie.

John's face in a laugh. With him. Not at him. It was beautiful.

His love for John had been settled with a bullet.

It was unwavering, he had never questioned it since. No need to. He loved John.

Loved his courage, his kindness, his loyalty, his calmness. Him. Everything. It was a fact of life. Nothing Sherlock spent time thinking about.

He had never wondered whether he should do anything about it. Just like he didn't think whether he should blink or breathe. He loved John, that was all. A condition of existence like any other.

Never had he thought whether John loved him. Not once. It just hadn't occurred to him. Unnecessary to think such things, when John's company was all he wanted. The praise given and an occasional passing touch more than he had ever dreamed of. More than he had ever known.

So easy to see now that he had been wrong. Made a mistake in not wishing for more. For settling. But he had not known.

He had taken it for granted that for John he was a comrade-in-arms. Love, yes, but for a friend in battle. The loyal attachment one had in the field. Love that knew the risks, knew not to look behind, to not linger. It moved on. But this. He had had no idea.

How clearly he saw it now.

Had he known, he would have found a way not to make John watch.

The bittersweet last glimpse he wanted for himself should have been just another comrade falling in battle. John making the best, most experienced witness. Seeing another casualty go down on the enemy lines.

No. It was a lover killing himself. He had not known.

How could he have known? There were always the women. The huff over "confirmed bachelor" references. If John were to have homosexual tendencies, surely they would have manifested themselves by now. He wasn't a young man after all and he wasn't afraid.

The annoyance with him, the "don't give me that look". He had taken it to be the irritation of a colleague. Something John had to put up with because they were fighting together on the same side. How could he have known that "don't give me that look" meant "I love you"? No, he couldn't have known.

John had not known either. He wasn't a timid man. He would have done something had he known. He was not inexperienced with love.

Now they both knew. Now. Too late. Too soon. Not the right time. The nature of knowledge: something that has always been true, learned. Becoming acknowledged.

He followed John from the cemetery. The limp would get worse. There was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

He stood out like a pink suitcase in a skip in Ho Chi Minh City, a tall, pale alien. He had a flat in District 4 near the university. A tiny bedroom and a large sitting room/kitchen with a balcony looking out in to the dingy street.

He had tried calmer surroundings, a Buddhist monastery in Tibet, but he did not like the quiet. He preferred the crowds of the city, the possibility of something happening.

He hated the heat.

He had not known what it was to miss someone. The only one.

Time was supposed to take care of the pain, heal his longing for John. Hour after hour of remedy. It had been an incorrect hypothesis.

Time stuck its claws in him, dug its nails deeper. The ticking of the clock reminding him of every second he was not with John. Of every moment he was not where he belonged. The hurt constant.

To feel a part of you gone, the physical nature of it. No switch to turn it off. No assurance that all will be well. No treatment to go through. A permanent wound bleeding.

It didn't get better.

Regret. Newly acquired knowledge making one re-evaluate past decisions deeming them incorrect. A useless emotion as time allowed no revisions.

If he had dared to dream.  
If he had not seen how John felt.  
If he had known sooner.  
If he had known what it was to miss.

An abundance of ifs where there used to be none.

Move on. If only. A gaping hole in him. Where John used to be.

He would wake up, that first disoriented second before reality caught up, and be looking forward to his day, to learning something new. Before the emptiness of the day ahead dawned on him, he was content. Until the pain swallowed all enthusiasm in one voracious bite. Left him hollow.

He did what he had planned: his research and studies, questions he had pondered since university. But they had no meaning. He might as well think about nothing. The nature of knowledge.

And it didn't change. He didn't feel any better as the weeks and months drew on. His life had become an empty charade of motions.

He had always found meaning and purpose in his work. Always. Now it was a secondary twiddling, something to fill the hours with. The hours of what was not. Of what he had lost. Of what he had never had. Never.

The pain – his only companion. His lover, his friend. All he had of John.

What it is to know for certain, absolutely. Without a doubt.


	2. Chapter 2

The network on the street sent Sherlock updates. A weekly report unless something unexpected happened, in which case he wanted to know immediately.

On the days the news arrived he rarely did anything else. Printed pictures and traced John's features on them, hung them up on his wall.

Feeding his pain like he used to feed his addiction. As if its needs could ever be satisfied. As if he could fill the measure of feeling and be rid of it. A lie. A purposeful avoidance of truth.

John was having fun. That would be the appropriate euphemism for the women under his arm. A different one weekly, sometimes daily. The pretty face changing, red skirts, blue jeans. Long blonde hair, short black hair, curly auburn hair. Nervous expressions, shy touches.

Enjoyment was far from it. Sherlock recognised the emptiness in John's eyes. The forced smile, barely clinging to his lips. John, desperate to fill the void in his life.

If only he had known.

* * *

Another bleak day, sun blazing. Another grey day, rain pouring. Sherlock adjusting the air conditioning, John collars turned up, shoulders hunched, half-running. Time.

Day, another day. Never-ending weeks trudging ahead. Working, thinking.

He studied John's women, tried to deduce what had attracted John in any particular female.

After a while he came to the conclusion that it was nothing. Any woman would do for now. For comfort.

That's why he was caught unawares when one of the women reappeared a week after making it to his gallery.

News. Gaining knowledge of recent events.

Light brown hair, wavy. A confident, happy smile on her face, hand around John's arm. John with a smile that reached his eyes.

Sherlock's vision became blurry, he wiped his eyes to see.

It was blistering hot.

He went out. Walked the streets, not really seeing ahead. Not really seeing anything.

His hurt, his companion suddenly worse. How can the worst get worse? He had to sit down, cover his face with his hands.

If only he had known.

He felt sick, dizzy, world swaying around him. _It's okay, you'll be fine. You'll be fine. It's only... You'll be fine._ He didn't know what it was, but something inside him was collapsing, pulling him into an abyss from the inside out. _You'll be fine. You'll be fine. It'll be fine. You're dead. You're dead. It'll be fine._

He groaned, straightened his back.

He got up. Wiped his eyes. Took a taxi to the airport.

* * *

John was laughing. If pictures didn't lie, for the first time in over a year. (To lie, to wilfully deceive. Requires a consciousness.) He kissed her, arms around her. She was trying to talk, but John kept interrupting her with kisses. She pretended to be annoyed. They laughed.

John was in love.

He took a taxi to the airport.

* * *

He took down the pictures from the wall and cut out all the women. Some of the pictures he re-pinned on the inside of a closet door. He instructed his network to leave the woman out of the pictures they sent him. Unless she changed.

A pathetic attempt at self-deception. (A lie for oneself. The prerequisite of happiness.) Vital.

The photos kept coming with only John in them. His arm often cut out of the frame.

If you know something to be true, is it possible to unknow it, to discredit knowledge? What is sufficient amount of doubt to tip the scales back to ignorance? How do you acquire doubt when the facts are evident?

He focused on his work, reviewing articles, researching, writing and submitting his own. Feverishly. Lonely work, no need to worry about social decorum. Work that did not affect life.

Knowledge is certain. Inescapable. Its existence undeniable.

His articles were compiled into a single volume and universities requested visiting lectures. He declined. Let it be understood that he was an invalid unable to travel. A lie you believe is the truth.

* * *

The wedding. 479 pictures sent to him. High-resolution.

He cleared his desk. Opened them on his computer as well as having the copies (quality photo paper this time, professional finish) spread out on the table.

There was a distinct difference between these and the ones taken by the official wedding photographer. They were shared online by her, protected (an expression only) by a ridiculous password.

In the official ones everyone was happy, smiling. A delighted groom with his lovely bride.

Point of view. The position of the observer affecting the observations.

The ones by his network told another story. A story that for the first time in one year, ten months and nineteen days made Sherlock feel a little bit lighter, relieved. Hopeful.

To truly know – to possess all of the facts.

For whenever John was alone or thought no one was looking, his face was serious, at times distinctly pained.

The worst was one from the altar, she looking at the vicar, the vicar nose buried in the storybook and John's face convulsed in agony. He must have trembled at that moment. His posture tense, fist almost clenched. Knuckles white holding the cane.

Frame after frame displaying how hard he fought for composure.

When John finally got his expression under control, tears were trickling down his face. As they turned to face each other, she smiled at him tenderly and kissed them. Thinking he was moved by the ceremony. John eyes closed, holding himself together. Forcing a smile on his lips.

Sherlock stroked the image. It was surely wrong to feel better because of John's pain, but he did nevertheless. No truths with feelings. No rights.

Hope. Hope that when his self-imposed exile would end, that maybe. Maybe then.

Is it possible to have absolute knowledge of the future? How could you acquire it? How to ascertain that your knowledge will come about?

In a year and two months.

His days were a tiny bit easier. The work suddenly a little more interesting.

He even agreed to a lecture at the local university, the auditorium bursting as philosophers around the world had jumped at the chance of finally hearing the sensational Kjell Ross Anfinson speak. The man who had appeared out of nowhere to answer some of the age-old questions in his field.

He quite enjoyed the experience. It had been a while since he had had the chance of portraying his intellect (showing off, John would say). After having happily insulted the intellect of anyone who posed questions or commented, he slipped out avoiding the cocktails in his honour.

No one minded. Philosophy as a discipline did not generally attract the socially most able and the academia was used to eccentrics, unlike the team spirit building coppers. The visit of Anfinson was a massive hit and the Ho Chi Minh University of Social Sciences and Humanities earned a bit of esteem.

* * *

Meanwhile in the UK Mycroft rolled out a campaign to clear his name. They had agreed on a two year period before exposing the truth about Richard Brooks and revealing that Moriarty was real. Plenty of time to put together the evidence, wipe out the most convincing details of Moriarty's fabrication, discredit Kitty Riley.

A sufficient time for the general population to not care all that much anymore.

For a few days the papers were screaming about how the lies and the pressure had driven the genius detective to take his own life, conveniently forgetting that they had been the ones leading the witch hunt and ridicule in the first place two years prior. Truth is irrelevant in sales.

Press tried to get quotes off John, but he refused to comment. He was still angry at them. Sherlock smiled seeing pictures of that stern, determined face.

John wrote a short blog entry. His first in a long time.

_Sherlock Holmes was my best friend. I'm glad that now everyone knows the truth about him, but the truth doesn't make the loss any easier. He was a great man and those who knew him always believed in him and will always miss him. _

It would be another year before Sherlock could return quietly. By then the public would have forgotten he was supposed to be dead. He turning up would interest no one and he would be able to resume his life away from the public eye. He had had enough of fame.

A year to plan how to get John back. More than back. How to make John his. He didn't know how these things were done.

Or whether they were possible.

* * *

It was closer to one at night when the news came. He was still busy working, thinking, palms pressed together.

She had hired a cycle, as she often did on the way to and from work, and a taxi turning left had knocked her over. She hit the pavement head first. No time to react, to reach out the hands for support. No helmet. Her skull fractured; bleeding and bruising making the brain give up on its automated commands to the body – the heart stopped pumping, the lungs breathing. The last, desperate convulsions of life struggling to hang on.

Death. So often it left a look of surprise on the victim's face. As if it wouldn't be the one certainty.

Whole life anticipation for it.

Two conflicting emotions: happiness, a guilty, morally wrong happiness. A joyful thrill. Wrong, definitely wrong. Sadness. Sadness for John, for John's growing pile of bodies. John, an expert in death. John with absolute knowledge of the inevitable.

Feelings. Sherlock was becoming quite a specialist on them. Always feeling something. It must be John, making him sensitive. The longing an entrance for all this emotion. The door open for all the distractions.

He wanted back to England, away from the heat, back to interesting cases. Back to John.

He would leave these confounded feelings behind him. Be himself again. He would reclaim the certainties. Shake off the ifs. The useless, infuriating ifs. There would be only one feeling left. It would be certain. Like before, but more.

He had to help John with his grief, do something. A desperate will to help forcing him to make an exception, to break the rules.

An anonymous postcard (a tacky London Eye -picture, stamped in Southwark) for comfort.  
_You are not alone._  
Kjell Ross' handwriting was very clear, unlike his own.

He wished he could see John's expression when he read it. No way of knowing what John thought. Ignorance. Lack of knowledge.

But at least there were no women. The occasional pub night with Stamford. Sometimes even Lestrade, who must have apologised, possibly some grovelling involved, for doubting whether Moriarty was real, for arresting Sherlock.

Sherlock was amused to notice that every so often Lestrade had case notes with him. The two of them poring over a murder, trying to channel some of his brilliance no doubt.

No sign of the desperation that had gripped John after Sherlock's death. A solemn, dignified mourning.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft had explained everything to Mrs. Hudson. She was tough, but better play it safe, and not surprise her with a sudden resurrection.

He had also re-rented 221B and had Sherlock's things brought back there, precisely as they were.

Sherlock's life ready for him. Everything like it was before.

He went up to John's room.

John had so few possessions that there wasn't much missing. His clothes; the ugly sheets (if he still had them, Sherlock would get rid of them); the abandoned cane in a corner. Most importantly: his presence.

Sherlock had a plan. A shaky sketch full of obscure variables. What were the words John needed to hear? The actions that would matter? How to express these feelings? Did they have to be expressed? How to make sure John would understand?

Sherlock played the violin most of the night. Not sleepy at all. Nervous about the dangerous day ahead of him.

Mrs Hudson fussed in at seven.

"I brought you a spot of breakfast, dear, hearing you were up. So good to have you back. But I do hope you won't be playing every night."

It was good to be home.

He didn't touch the breakfast, only drank a cup of coffee before heading out to make preparations for the evening.

* * *

John was going home from work, passing by a house where a murder had occurred. The Ronald Adair case.

Very conveniently timed. Well synchronised with Sherlock's and Mycroft's schedule.

One of the best things about today was that Sherlock would not need to rely on Mycroft anymore. Not after this day.

How he hated the sight of that pompous face. Or the sound of the conceited, crisp voice. There was even something about his texts that Sherlock disliked. To pull off that patronizing tone in a few words on the screen was a talent in itself.

Ronald Adair was found shot dead in a room on the third floor, door locked from the inside, window slightly ajar. In front of him 2 153 pounds cash. Public school, the very best circles, but with a good reputation, actually worked hard at his father's company. His only vice was gambling, but he seemed to play within his means (which did allow him quite a lot of freedom) and avoid risks.

On the night of his death he had come home around midnight, having played a round of cards at his club. His girlfriend had heard him come in and the CCTV in the building confirmed that he'd arrived alone. He had locked himself in his study.

The girlfriend had awoken at three in the morning wondering why he hadn't come to bed. She had been unable to get a reply or open the door and called 999. Ronald was found with a bullet through his head. The opposite building was across a private park, some 32 yards away with several trees in between. The window intact. No motive, no suspects.

A baffling case. For some.

* * *

Sherlock followed John to his flat. The flat he'd shared with her. Not the great location and quiet street they had in Baker Street. John walked slowly, relying on the cane for every step. After all this time still irritated for needing it.

Sherlock rang the doorbell. Keeping his hand steady. Heard the steps inside, coming for the door, the lock turned. His heart beat fast and loud.

"John…" a sigh escaped his lips. Not all he had planned to say.

John let his hand go from the door, stepped back, his feel faltering, colour draining from his face. Sherlock caught him just in time.

John in his arms. Not how he had imagined it.

John came to in a chair in the living room. Sherlock's face only an inch from his. Sherlock pulled back seeing him open his eyes.

"You'll want tea."

John heard the kettle already on. He nodded. He reached out and touched Sherlock's face. Sure this wasn't real.  
He felt the warm skin under his palm. Not dead.

Sherlock put his hand over John's. Pressed it against his cheek. John pulled away startled.

"Sorry, I just… can't believe this," he said embarrassed.

"Yes," Sherlock turned, went to the kitchen.

His hands were shaking as he poured the water in mugs, spilling it on the table, fumbling to open the tea. He put milk and sugar in both.

Sherlock sat opposite John. Clutching at his cup.

So nervous. One more emotion to fight through. One of the last ones before reaching equilibrium again. Before being able to close the gap where all these feelings seeped through.

He was with John. Three excruciating years over. This moment here, now. John staring at him, not believing his eyes.

"I'm sorry for the shock."

John shook his head. What did it matter.

"What… I mean… how…?"

Sherlock wanted closer to him, he wanted to bury his head in John's lap, he wanted to hold John. He couldn't stay seated.

"Moriarty," he stood up, walked around the room, fiddling with the bric-a-brac. "He was going to kill Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and you, if I didn't die." He couldn't help himself, put his hand on John's shoulder. "To burn my heart out."

John placed a hand on his, squeezed.  
"Yeah, when they found his body, I knew he had to be involved somehow."

John's breath on his arm.

"I took your pulse."

"Yes, from the right wrist. I had a ball in my armpit."

John nodded. Let go of Sherlock's hand after passing fingers over his pulse.  
"What about the fall? I saw you."

"You saw what I wanted you to see, John. Magic tricks."

"Magic tricks," John repeated. "You must have had a lot of help."

Sherlock stroked John's shoulder. This was bad. The worst part.  
"Some, yes. My network on the street, Mycroft, Molly…"

John moved away from under his touch. Straightened his posture. Held his left hand in place with the right one.

"So a lot of homeless people, the brother you hate, the pathologist you laugh at…" His voice failed. "Glad you found people you could trust. Wait, that means that Anderson and Donovan probably knew, too, right?" A hollow laugh. "In fact, am I the only one who didn't know you weren't dead? Who has spent three years… Three fucking _years_, Sherlock… Shit."

John put his hand over his eyes.  
He wouldn't cry. Fuck. He wouldn't cry for this bastard one more time. A deep breath.

John walked over to the window.

"Sorry, John. I know what it may seem like. But I needed your convincing sorrow to make the world believe in my death."

"You needed it? Well, you got it," a soft voice, almost a whisper.

John, fraught with hurt, body taut. Sherlock walked over to him. Uncertain of what to do he was about to place his hands on John's shoulders.

"Do _not_ touch me!"

Sherlock was too slow in backing away, not anticipating the blow. It hit his cheek, across the nose.

He staggered backwards; fell on the chair John had just vacated. Felt his nose. Bleeding, not broken. Nice. Well struck.

John looked at him coldly. Relented, got an instant ice pack and pressed it on Sherlock's face. His touch so gentle, caring now, a light caress as he made sure nothing was broken.

They sat quiet a minute. John drinking his tea, Sherlock pressing his nose to stop the bleeding.

"You've got a tan?" John finally said conversationally.

"Lived in Vietnam. God, how I loathe the heat."

"Should suit you then. Purgatory like, I hope," John scoffed.

Sherlock managed a frown from under the ice pack.  
"I know I... was wrong, John."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I did you wrong. I... apologise."

"Wish I'd have a recorder for this."

"I didn't know hard it would be on you. I had no idea of your feelings until I saw you at the burial."

"Oh, you saw me? Did you enjoy seeing…" Again his voice betrayed him.

"No." Sherlock took the ice off his face to be able to better look at John.

"No, I didn't enjoy it. I didn't enjoy one second of the past three years. I enjoyed this punching more than anything in the past three years."

John fought off a flicker of a smile.  
"So, what now? Why are you here? What made you return? Or should I ask the chap who sleeps in front of the Tesco?"

"There's a case. Something to perhaps justify a man's life."

"A case?" John glowered at him.

Sherlock wanted to scream. (_No! You! You. Something I need to do to get to you, to be yours._) But not yet. He'd waited this long.

"I could use your help. Might be dangerous."

John turned away. Cleared his throat.  
"The leg's quite bad. Can't move around like I used to. No running for me."

"There should be no running."  
And the leg will get better if you come.

"You can call it the adventure of the empty house," Sherlock joked.

"I'll come up with my own titles, thank you."

John paused, thought it over.  
"Sure, I'll come."

"Good. Like old times," Sherlock smiled, but John didn't join him. "We'll have to wait awhile for the dark."

They sat in silence.

"Where were you?" Voice so quiet Sherlock strained to hear it.  
John's arms were crossed over his chest, his lips a straight line.

"I was in Tibet a couple of months, then in Vietnam the rest of the time. Solved a few questions of epistemology."

"Epistemology?"

"The philosophy of – "

"Yes, I do know what epistemology is. Fun was it?"

Not as much fun as you've been having.  
"No."

An uncomfortable silence. John got up. Went to get a fresh ice pack and placed it on Sherlock's face. Held it there.  
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. This shouldn't look too bad tomorrow, though."

Sherlock shrugged. Physical pain, nothing to him anymore.

"I got your postcard after Mary died. Thanks."  
John's fingers on Sherlock's cheek.  
"I thought… I don't know what I thought. I hoped."

John brushed some of Sherlock's hair off from under the pack. Cradled his temple, leaned in and kissed the top of his head, quickly, delicately.

"Should we go then? Save the city from crime?"  
John suddenly in a hurry to move, picking up his jacket, looking for the keys.

It was dark outside.


	4. Chapter 4

They got a cab to Cavendish Square. Sherlock led them along a maze of back alleys, staircases and rooftops. The more difficult the passage the more readily John seemed to forget to lean in on his cane.

They arrived at the back of an abandoned building, and entered after a quick lock picking.

Sherlock placed his hand on John's back to guide him in the right direction and they climbed the creaky stairs up in the dark.

The room they went into was partly illuminated by the street lights outside.

"Baker Street," John remarked of the view.

"Stay clear of the windows."

John peeked out, making sure he couldn't be seen.  
"There are two men keeping an eye on our door."

_Our_ door.

"The police."

John looked at Sherlock, out again. Across the street Sherlock was apparently sitting in his chair reading.  
"Huh. Clever. What is it made of?"

"WED clay. Helped out a special effects sculptor once."

"And the movement?"

"Had to improvise. A miniature train, some wiring. Not too shaky is it?"

"No, no. Very natural. Looks fantastic."  
There. Finally John looked at Sherlock with the old admiration.

Sherlock felt his skin prickle, as if after three years his blood was flowing again, numb limbs warming up. Life starting to return in him, his senses heightening. He became suddenly aware of the floor he was standing on, the musty air he breathed, the slight draft in the room, the warmth of John, even from such a distance. The colours of the world returning.

They settled to wait and hid behind a door. Side by side leaning against the wall. Their shoulders brushing lightly.

Sherlock could feel John's arm along his own, his heart beat even through the layers of clothing. The relaxed muscles against him, ready to be used, ready to be strong.

He couldn't resist. Slowly Sherlock hitched his hand to take a hold of John's. He let him. Laced their fingers for a closer embrace. Stroked Sherlock's palm with his thumb, just once.

Sherlock's heart beat so loudly in his ears that he wondered if it could be heard downstairs. But he knew it to be impossible.

John coughed.  
"What did you mean about how I feel? When you saw me at the cemetery?"

Sherlock hesitated.  
"I hadn't understood before how much... we meant to each other. I always knew... your worth. But I didn't know you felt the same. About me. Not until I saw you there."

Indefinite. Read between the lines. Connotations.

Quiet.

John thinking. Would he dare to go there, to ask. Here, now; or later, elsewhere. Bad experiences about later. Time ran out so easily.  
"What is my... I mean... How do you... feel then?"

Sherlock gripped John's hand tighter, leaned towards him. Their eyes sparkling in the dark. The hum of a passing car down on the street.  
"I -" Sherlock started as they heard the creak of a step downstairs.

A quick smile. Later. The hold of hands let go.

A man in a cap came in. He moved about confidently, went straight for the window and knelt down unaware of their presence. He had a rucksack with him from which he started to pull out metallic parts. Parts of a rifle. He assembled the gun with confidence, not needing pauses to think or to double-check.

Once ready, he put the weapon against the window sill and fired. A single shot echoing in the empty house, the figure across the street teetering and tipping over with a hole in its head.

Sherlock and John jumped the man, and wrestled the gun off him.

There were people running up the stairs as they tried to hold him down. The man was big and strong, used to close combat, but he calmed down once John smacked him with his cane.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed stepping in. "I got your message, but, frankly, I didn't believe it."  
And without warning he pulled Sherlock into a hug.

Sherlock was way out of his comfort zone, but they managed it somehow with only the usual amount of discomfort in sober man-hugs.  
"Good to see you, Sherlock, really good to see you," Lestrade patted his arms.

"Hmph. You haven't been doing too well, have you? A lot of open cases, I've heard."

Lestrade only laughed good-naturedly at the criticism.  
"So, what have you got for us today then? A fellow trying to kill a dead man?"

"Yes, this is Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"Well, Moran, you're under arrest."

"For what, may I ask?" The man answered coolly.

"Why don't we start with the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes? Work from there?" Lestrade suggested.

"No, no. Go with the murder of Ronald Adair. Keep me out of it. I don't want my name on anymore news," Sherlock said.

Lestrade was baffled.  
"The Adair case?"

"That's right. The gun's right here, you'll find it matches the bullet you found there. Colonel Moran is one of the finest snipers to ever have served the Queen and the country."

"Is that so?" Lestrade studied the man.

"He was also Moriarty's close friend."

Lestrade whistled quietly.

The crime scene team was moving in. Donovan and Anderson acknowledged Sherlock and John only with small, embarrassed nods. No danger of hugs from them.

Sherlock turned to John.  
"Want to come over for dinner? Order in Chinese?"

John smiled, all the way to his eyes.  
"Sure. Just like old times."  
He forgot his cane in the empty house.


	5. Chapter 5

"Who's this Moran then? What did he want with you?" John asked when they were seated in the kitchen, scooping their dinner from the take out boxes.

Sherlock had managed to clutter the kitchen table in less than a day with his instruments and papers.

"He was Moriarty's partner. Turned out Moriarty hadn't come alone to the roof. When I left St. Bart's, he followed me. He was determined to kill me. Rather cross with me, if you can believe it. I outran him to Belgium," Sherlock chuckled. It had been a splendid chase. "A week later in Tunis I was sure I'd lost him and no one knew where I was, so I was able to head east as planned."

"One more person, who knew you were alive..." but John was more curious than resentful by now. "How did you keep everyone quiet – . Of course. Mycroft."

"That voyeur has his ways of persuading people not to blab. Not that anyone was tempted. But he has enough CCTV-footage to make mutes of the whole nation if he'd want to," Sherlock grumbled. Suppose the oaf had to get his kicks somehow.

"Moran could have carried out Moriarty's threat. About killing... Burning your heart out."  
He paused. "Unless he thought you wouldn't care."

His sorrow – a sign that Sherlock didn't have a heart to burn. Their eyes met.  
"So he just waited for your return the whole time?"

"He tried to find me of course. Too ambitious of him. He hoped I'd come back, or that Mycroft would slip, reveal my whereabouts. Very optimistic. He kept his eyes open."

"Why did you come back? I mean, I'm happy about it, but since you'd disappeared so successfully, why didn't you just stay away?" John wondered.

Sherlock looked at him astonished. Wasn't it clear already? How plain did he need to be? But John looked genuinely puzzled.  
"You're not serious, are you?" Sherlock cried out. "I came back because of you!"

"Oh."  
John got up, cleared the remains of the meal. Put the kettle on, more out of habit then an actual hankering for a cuppa.  
"Right. Really?"

"Obviously." Sherlock went over to him. "So," he stood in front of John, exposed, ready for his heart to burn, "was I right in what I saw at the cemetery? Am I right now?"

John wavered.  
"Right about what?"

"About love." Why did John have to make him _say_ these things? "You love me, don't you?"

John looked at Sherlock. The ever-observant eyes uncommonly soft, the dark curls framing the angular face, the nervous biting of his lower lip.  
"Of course I love you."

"Well, then..." But he didn't know what. Or knew. But not how. He didn't know the steps from here to there. So close, almost. But he had got lost on his map.

John noticed his uncertainty. Smiled. Finally an area where Sherlock didn't excel despite having clearly thought about it extensively. His hand wandered over to the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled the taller man closer.  
"Yeah, I suppose so, then…" John confirmed.

Their lips pressed together. Warm, so warm. Soft, a small pull. John's tongue on his lips.

"I love you, John," he breathed into the kiss.

Saying the words, finally, at long last after five years. Five years of loving. His hands found their way to John's back, his nape. He let John part his lips, let his tongue enter. Five years. He quivered. This kiss.

John pressed against him.

"John, I've never…" Sherlock started.

"I know."  
A small peck on his lips.

"Truth be told I'm knackered. This has been a strange day. Do you mind if I spend the night here?" John suggested.

"Of course not. You should. Why don't you… I'd like it if… You could sleep with me. I mean… in my bed."

Another kiss. A tight embrace. John burying his face against Sherlock's neck.

"I was hoping I might," he murmured.

* * *

They decided John looked too ridiculous in Sherlock's pyjamas, so he settled wearing just his red undies.

John's chest was covered in pale hair, a thin stream that disappeared in his pants. His body lean, movement revealing the strength underneath as muscles flexed, showed themselves.

Sherlock opted to wear only his bottoms, too, for fairness sake. He lay on his back as John slipped under the duvet next to him. Got close, his hand on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock wasn't tired at all. Doubted if he'd get any sleep. Uncertain whether the purpose of the arrangement was to get any sleep. Most definitely not knowing how to put into practise all he had read about other bed activities besides sleep.

John did look tired, yawning, his eyes hardly open as he nuzzled against Sherlock.

"Tell me about the Adair case. I still don't know why Moran shot him," John asked sleepily.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"You mean you don't know?" John laughed into his shoulder.

"Well, they did play cards together. I assume Moran cheated. If he were found out, he'd get kicked out of their club, out of the circles he mingled with. That would seriously damage his business."

"You can be a cold-blooded killer, but beware should you play foul," John's lips so close to his skin.

"Adair must have caught him at it. Demanded he'd come clean and return his winnings."

"And he was counting what he himself had gained by Moran's swindle when the bullet hit him," John's words almost slurred through half-slumber.

Sherlock nodded. He had wrapped his arm around John. Fingers circling John's back. Smooth. John's breathing steady. Traced his shoulder blades. Petted the soft curls on the small of his back. Pulled John closer, his leg over Sherlock's thigh, hand gripping Sherlock's shoulder.

Deep, long breaths.

"John," he whispered in to the sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock woke up to a kiss on his temple. He didn't open his eyes, turned to his side, hand fumbling until it found skin, making its way up to John's neck. Thumb brushing against the stubble.

Incredible. To wake up next to John.

He stroked John's neck, the soft back of it. John's earlobe between his fingers. The corners of his eyes. His lips. Moist. John trembled as touched them.

John's hand on his waist, tiny motions, the grip tightening.

A wave of want suddenly rose in Sherlock, an aching. It rode over the insecurity and nervousness, the unanswered questions. He pulled John's lips against his confidently. Tasted John, nibbling his lips.

John took his lower lip between his, tongue gliding over, in. Grasping John's neck. _Closer, John, closer_.

Mouths trying to contain all of each other, pure heat. No way to get enough, no chance of letting go. John's hand on his buttock, pulling their hips against each other. Bodies aligned, pressing onto one another. A hard cock against him. John's. His own grinding on John.

John panting: "Are you sure?"

_Don't take your lips from mine_.

A tongue into John's mouth. Fingers clutching John's nape, his hair. Getting closer, no options. Gaining knowledge. John's body, his to understand. He would.

Hard to breathe, gasping. Body struggling to keep up with its own needs.

John's lips, sliding to his chin, his neck. Hungry lips. Head falling backwards. New sounds, a music born out of John's touch. Words failing. No words for this. Hanging on to John. A desperate hold.

Carefully easing, hands moving lower, under the waistband. John's buttocks. Firm, tight. Trying to sink fingers into them. John's breathless moan against him.

John sucking his nipple. An unidentified song vibrating in his chest. John's hands on his hips, thumbs stroking his pelvis. _What next? Can there be more? Already too much, too good. Have to have all of it. All of John._

Lifting hips, John undressing him. A touch all the way to his ankles. A kiss above his knee.

John's fingers on the insides of his thighs, cupping his balls, caressing them. _Hold on, hold on, not yet, not yet_.

Pressing hand on face, biting palm. Calm down. Air. Breathe.

John's thumb, crossing over his glans. Slick, wet. Hot. Trying to hang on as John's palm spread against his cock, took a hold of it. _No, can't take it, can't._ Hips pushing into his fist, not caring, John's strokes responding. No. Yes. More. Tearing John's hair, to get lips on his.

Scream, shout, whichever, whatever into John. Let go, release.

Everything unleashed, all of it. Nothing. Shivers, his body not his to control. Pleasure, no, bliss, no, eruption, no. No words. Knowledge ends here. The ever unknown begins. No explanation for this. Too good. Light.

Breathe. Heartbeat. Slower. Calmer. Perfect. There has never been pain. Never will be. Bright light. Bliss, yes.

John caressing his face, tiny kisses on his cheek. The corners of his eyes.

_John, I've found something. I want you to have it._

Pressing John to lie on his back. Lips against John's neck. Breathing him in. Tasting him.

Pants off. John so hard. Solid. His to touch. Different, yet familiar. Wet tip. Moaning his name, begging him.

_I will give it to you, John_.

Kissing John's flank, stroking him.

_It's beautiful. I want you to have it_.

Teeth on John's abdomen. Hand holding tightly on his buttock. Slick movements on his cock. _Yes, John. I know, finally I know. Here it is._

John cursing, calling for the deities, both at the same time. Stopping, a frozen moment in time. The hot sperm bursting out, on his fingers. John gasping.

Relaxing under his touch.

Sherlock rolled to his back. Put a wet finger in his mouth, wanted to taste John. He'd have more, later. Forever.

"Sherlock."

Mouth on his. Gentle.

John slumped against him, head on his chest.

"I love you. Christ, how I love you."

* * *

Sherlock put on his dressing gown. He didn't want to shower yet. Wanted to savour their mixed fluids on his skin. Sweat, semen. Parts of John on him. John laughing when being told about it.

John had showered, put on yesterday's clothes.  
"Coffee?" he asked trying to find something to eat in the kitchen.

"Mmm," Sherlock sat by the table, just admiring him.

Mrs Hudson's heels on the stairs. An overt tap on the door.  
"Morning boys, may I come in?"

"Of course, Mrs Hudson," John replied smiling.  
She must have heard something. Or a lot. They certainly hadn't tried to be discreet.

She patted Sherlock's shoulder, kissed John's cheeks.  
"Hello John, good to see you so cheerful. What a miserable three years you've had. Oh, how I worried… I've got a bit of toast and eggs here for you lads. Sherlock won't have done any shopping, now, has he? There." She looked at them beaming. "All's well that ends well, isn't that what they say. Have you brought your things already?"

"My things?" John wondered.

"You haven't then? Now, I did your room yesterday as Sherlock told me you were moving in today. Just this once, mind you, I'm not your housekeeper. You'll be wanting new carpeting, I expect, once you see the state it's in, but I can tell you right now, that the terms are 'as is'. You can hardly see the stains unless it's real sunny."

"I'm sure it's fine, Mrs Hudson. Thank you," John said. "Sherlock told you yesterday?"

Sherlock grinned at him. Obviously.

"Why yes, I _know_. I hope someone would have told me earlier, but there it is, you know what he's like. Now, I better go, leave you two alone. I'm sure you've got a lot of catching up to do. I will be out all day, mind you. Won't be back 'til late," she assured them as she left.

"We weren't very quiet then," John said, placing a kiss on Sherlock's neck.

"That would've been impossible. And you should know that I have no plans of being quiet in the future either."

John chuckled: "We need to get her earplugs."

"Sure," Sherlock agreed pulling John against him, half seated in his lap and kissing him.

Sherlock's hands wandered under John's shirt. John kissed his forehead.

"Any chance to get you to reconsider showering?"

"Only if you promise to debauch me as soon as I come out."

"I swear."

_I need you on my skin. _

_I need you to live._

* * *

John was true to his words. He tore off Sherlock's towel as soon as he came back to the kitchen and took him to the bedroom, pushed him on to bed. Undressed himself hurriedly. Got on top of him.

_Is there more, John?_

Skin on skin, hot. Cocks hard instantly, pressing against bodies.

Kiss, familiar already, exciting, all new again. The friction of tongues. How to describe the movement of lips? Knowing what to do, taking what they want, giving all that's needed. Pliant, perfect lips.

Hand on the back of John's neck. Muscle even there. An urge to bite. Careful teeth nibbling the neck, eager mouth sucking the skin, marking it. John flinching, laughing, pulling back. pressing his shoulders against the mattress.

A wet smear on stomachs. His? John's? There is no difference any more.

John's hands on his sides, caressing. A mouth on his nipple, a slick tongue around it. A sharp inhale. Feel John's smile against his chest.

Stroke John's head, try to hold on to something as the mouth, the tongue, the lips move lower. The hands following along, a finger pinching nipple.

A cheek brushing cock. A soft stroke on his inner thighs, hands spreading them. Breath on his pelvis.

Something mixing with pleasure. Fear? Anticipation? Both? Still, unquestionably wanting more.

Lips on the shaft of his cock. An unfamiliar sensation. Amazing. A hot tongue licking, moving up.

_John. John. John._

A fist around him. The tongue, the tongue, circling the tip, licking it languidly. emIt's too much, John./em

Suddenly: so wet, burning, all around him. Immersed. Being pulled deeper, let go, suction against him. John's tongue slick, whirling around him. Hips bucking, can't help it, fingers digging into sheets. Can almost see it, body tensing.

Pressure easing, lips on his abdomen, slow strokes.

_No, John, more_. Quiet laughter, patience.

John pushing legs wider, knees up, hip higher. A finger circling anus, the slight pressure of thumb.

_John, help me._

The mouth wrapped around him. _Yes_. Tongue pressing against him, sucked into John, further.

Shuddering, everything bright and weightless.

Alive. Holding on to John. Now. Forever. It is certain.

* * *

Sources

Reichenbach theories from finalproblem tumblr com

Arthur Conan Doyle: _The Empty House_

More from me on AO3 search for Avice


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